The Last Night
by xFutureDreamingx
Summary: Before Sherlock leaves London after the Fall to destroy everything Moriarty has built up, he visits John for one last time. It will be dangerous, but he knows that danger is what brought them both together. After all, John is worth the risk.


**The Last Night**

**Summary:**Before Sherlock leaves London after the Fall to destroy everything Moriarty has built up, he visits John for one last time. It will be dangerous, but he knows that danger is what brought them both together. After all, John is worth the risk.

**Disclaimer:** Obviously I still do not own Sherlock. It belongs to the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and all of the other amazing people who helped create it.

**Author's Note: **This fic contains spoilers for series 2 of Sherlock, so if you haven't watched and you don't like spoilers, I suggest that you don't read! :)

**I hope you enjoy...**

He couldn't stay away.

Not just yet.

He'd go just the once and then he'd leave London. Get out of the country, even. He had to destroy the web that Moriarty had left behind. And that was going to take some time. A considerable amount of time. But just tonight, he'd give in to temptation. He'd go and visit John for the last time.

He had no trouble in finding the accommodation his best friend had now taken residence in. He stood outside the front door, his gaze lingering upon the window of John's bedroom. It didn't take long to deduce it was his. Even from here he could see the faint hand prints that John had left whilst opening the windows during the day, sometimes even at night. He carefully pulled out the key he'd managed to copy from the original which he'd acquired from the landlady of this block of flats. He slipped it into the lock, turning it slowly, holding every breath for a second longer than he needed to. He'd always thought to himself that breathing was boring – at the moment, he was going against his own word. It seemed as if his breath was out to betray him tonight, alert every person in this building as to his presence – including John.

He listened out for the creak of the door as it slowly swung open, letting the light of the street lamp outside spill onto the floor of the hallway in front of him. Seemingly without him knowing, he'd managed to take the few steps to the bottom of the staircase, shutting the door behind him silently as he went. His gaze swept over each of the stairs individually – the third step from the bottom would creak if he put too much pressure on the left side of it and the carpet on the second from the top was frayed, so he'd have to watch out not to trip on it. He made it up to the second floor, having dodged those two small obstacles. He felt as if he was a ghost moving through the building, except he wasn't dead, despite what John believed. Despite what everyone believed.

John's door. It now stood before him, mocking him in the silence of the night. How could a mere piece of wood mock Sherlock Holmes, you ask? Well, a great deal if you think about it. And Sherlock _was_ thinking about it. This piece of wood was the barrier between him and the one person he cared about most in the world. The person he was doing all of this for, who he was trying to save. As much as it would hurt them both, it was what needed to be done.

Taking yet another breath, Sherlock used the other copied key he'd acquired to open John's door, standing there in the doorway for just a moment. He surveyed his surroundings, feeling as if he were looking around a flat that didn't have a living person occupying it. Taking a few cautious steps forward, he noted how there was an air of emptiness in the room. His eyes landed on a door which was slightly ajar and, unconsciously, he moved towards it, his feet seeming to barely touch the ground as he approached John's bedroom. His eyes swept over the hunched figure beneath the sheets, curled on its side. John's head was tucked in towards his chest, and his hands were spread in front of him, slightly tucked underneath the pillow. Sherlock shut the door behind him, every move he made muffled by the overwhelming tension that just he himself was radiating into the room.

He stood looming over John at the side of his bed, so he could see his face. His fingers itched to reach out and just touch him to reassure himself that he was real before his eyes. This wasn't like when he'd seen the hound. He had refused to believe what he'd seen in Dewer's Hollow that night. However, this was different to how he felt now. He knew that John was there in front of him, but he didn't want to admit that it had come to this – himself standing there before a sleeping John because he couldn't reveal to his best friend that he really was alive. To him, it seemed cowardly, as if he had a weakness. And he supposed that he did, after all. In all of the times where they'd come close to death, it was always his worry for John that had ever had an affect on what move he chose next. If he had never cared for John so much, he might have chosen actions in those situations which may have been deemed careless or even stupid. Not stupid in his terms, of course, but stupid in John's eyes.

Cautiously, he bent down to rest on his knees beside the bed, still staring at John, but now he was level with him. He stretched his arms out on the mattress before him, laying his head down on them so he could study John's face in silence some more. He noted the frown lines on John's forehead, most of which were probably caused by himself. The spatter or faint wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and mouth. His hair was tousled by sleep, or possibly the army doctor's hands running through it countless times. More than likely, it was for both of those reasons. Sherlock was no fool – he knew that his 'death' was taking its toll on John. He didn't keep him in the dark on purpose, of course it was to keep him safe. He knew it was incredibly likely that Moriarty had given his men the orders, even after the event of his own death, to keep an eye on John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade just in case there was any chance that Sherlock managed to return. That's why he couldn't even let his best friend know that he really was alive.

John shifted in his sleep, his eyes fluttering beneath his eyelids as he dreamed. Sherlock continued to watch on in silence, the only sound being both his and John's faint breathing. Hesitantly, Sherlock reached out a tentative hand closer to John. He wasn't going to touch him, he just wanted to feel near to him. Even this damn bed was acting as a barrier, just as the door to the flat had. Sherlock's gaze flitted over to the bedside table next to him, and he felt a trace of panic flicker through him at the sight of John's gun laid there. John's fingerprints were all over it, although he had taken to cleaning it everyday to try his best and get rid of them. So, he at least picked it up once a day. Sherlock had a couple of theories as to why, but he did not let himself think anything further on it for now.

"Sherlock?"

He froze, slowly returning his gaze back to John who's eyes were cracked open an inch. The consulting detective could tell that his best friend was still dragged down by the weight of drowsiness, but he was drifting in the world of consciousness for a moment.

"You're dreaming again, John."

A slight frown appeared at John's eyebrows, but his eyes were unfocused, and Sherlock knew that he wouldn't remain awake for much longer.

"Why did you...leave me?"

The guilt that surged through Sherlock was becoming more and more frequent these past few days, and so he was quickly becoming used to it. That didn't stop it from hurting, though. Especially as he saw the hurt and loneliness in John's dazed eyes.

"To save you. You're safe now."

John's eyes drifted shut for a few seconds before opening again.

"I don't want to be safe if it means I'm...without you."

Sherlock sighed quietly, looking away from John for a moment before returning to watch him.

"I'll always be with you. I wouldn't ever willingly leave you properly, would I?"

John closed his eyes again, not opening them again.

"I just want you back."

Sherlock stood then, knowing that if he stayed any longer he wouldn't be able to leave. He looked down at John for a few seconds, debating something with himself, before leaning forward to press a feather-light kiss to his forehead, and then resumed his standing position.

"Be strong for me, John."

And with that, he slipped out into the darkness of the night, leaving John to his sleep once more. He didn't look back, not once. His heart felt heavy as he made his way to the port of Dover, off to search out the rest of Moriarty's contacts around the world. He wouldn't rest until John and the rest of the few people who mattered in his life were completely safe. They were in no immediate danger for the moment, but he needed to take out every single threat that posed itself to them.

xxxxx

John's eyes flew open again just as the door to the block of flats swung shut, and he sat up in his bed, his gaze wandering around the room. There was complete and utter silence, apart from his own ragged breathing. He let out a heavy sigh, falling back against the pillows and staring at the ceiling. Tears were stinging his eyes as he thought back to the dream-like encounter he'd just had. He had no clue if it was real, considering that his nightmares of Afghanistan were always that realistic, but he liked to believe that there was a little more hope in his life now.

"Come back soon, Sherlock..."

Sleep soon overtook him again, and he fell into a deep, dreamless slumber. When he woke in the morning, he found that the only thing he remembered from the previous night was a strange dream where he'd been talking to Sherlock. It made his heart give a painful lurch, and he tried not to think on it again as he went about his now-monotonous daily routine.


End file.
